


august.

by desm_nt



Category: Blur (Band)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Suicide, britpop war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desm_nt/pseuds/desm_nt
Summary: maybe he just needed to get rid of his life.
Relationships: Damon Albarn/Graham Coxon
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	1. ⁰

_14/08/95_

_For the anniversary of the 2 songs that made this possible: Roll With It and Country House. Without them, that hard fight would never have existed and some people would never have pushed others to extreme exits in extreme situations._

_In advance, I thank you for taking the time to read. I agree that I am not the best, but I am trying. I will be grateful to you for the time I have left._

_Thank you._

August, 1995.

Glowing lights and music echoing down the street. It had been more than two hours since he had lost his friends, or a familiar face. 

Damon kept insisting that she go with him until she did, even though the chestnut tree didn't want her to.

— Come on, Gra! It'll be fun! – He was humming, happy about the recent success.

He'd promised that if he felt bad he'd go home with him to hug him and tell him jokes. But he felt terrible, overwhelmed by the exaggerated number of people around him; and he wasn't there.

Surrendering to the search, he made his way up to the other floors, having the vague idea that it would be easier for them to find him. Maybe Damon was asking everyone if they had seen him by chance, or maybe he just didn't care. So there he was, their biggest fear since the idea of forming a band had crossed their minds. He preferred all his new friends, attracted by the fame, over the one boy who helped him at school. He probably didn't even know when he left. It was already done, the last straw was that.

He ran through the halls with a wet face and a heart pounding against his chest. He went into one of the first rooms he found open, sitting on one of the nice armchairs and trying to relax his nerves and his tremendous urge to keep crying until the next morning. His greatest dream was to play with his friends in the cold, damp streets of Essex, laughing and being happy with the few pennies that people would give them; not to saturate his body with peculiar substances and lose the only thing he had left.

He wanted to turn back time and go back to that day where it all began. He would never have wanted to start that fight, he could have retired with his head down and let the others win. On the other hand, Damon didn't, and that bothered him. He appreciated it, of course, he had it very well in his heart; however, it exasperated him every time he got into a problem, and this last one tried his patience. What was the point of being the first in sales? What was the point of being the best Britpop band of the decade? Was success more important than having a good time with your colleagues? It seems that, for the blond, fame was beyond friendship and even his own well-being.

It was past 12 am, he was cold and longing to disappear. He did not feel able to cope with the situation he was in, after five years he admitted it: he could not follow that path full of reflectors and cameras. He was wasted, overloaded with mistakes and problems. With his eyes blurred and his legs unsteady, he gradually approached the balcony. The night breeze hit his face, causing his hair to fly.

The music changed, something moved and noisy filled the place. In the distance he could hear laughter, everyone was happy, having fun with a drink on top of it and he was there, on the edge of a balcony on the sixth floor, contemplating the importance of staying safe. He couldn't ask for help, only Damon, and now even he couldn't shout at him from above to come and get him, to smile at him and let him cry on his shoulder until they both fell asleep.

His stomach turned and his head was spinning, spinning and spinning like the spinning cups at the fair. He was excited and dazed, angry, with an unbearable urge to vomit. His blue sweater that he cherished so much seemed not to protect him from the cold that night, the cool blizzard piercing through the holes in the fabric, warming him to the bone. He wished with all his strength that someone would interrupt, that they would open the door looking for something and they would find it in that situation: on the verge of death. He longed so much that they would help him, at this point it mattered little if he was not their friend. He wanted to repent, to back off and run away from there. It was so close to leaving, to get rid of that big pile of stress he had created for himself.

One step, that was all he had left between life and death.

To do or not to do, his own dilemma.

No one was knocking on the door, not anymore.

He thought about everything he had experienced so far, about his family, his friends, _about Damon._ He lifted one leg, holding on to the window frame. The sweat from his hands caused them to slip and the weight of his body helped him fall. The wind was blowing on his face, cold. There was no turning back, or any reset button; not this time.

He had promised that if he felt bad he would go home with him to hug him, _to kiss him_ and tell him jokes. But he felt terrible, and he wasn't there.

That's when everything went dark, and the last thing he heard was the sound of his face hitting the pavement.


	2. ¹

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i miss the feeling of dying at night.

Amidst the laughter and music, no one present had heard the blow of the falling boy, but someone rushing home, terrified by the scene, called the police who soon called an ambulance. People, overcome by curiosity, came out of the place in droves to see what all the fuss was about. Inside, a young blond man who barely saw everyone leave stopped dancing, walking alongside the people with confusion on his face and a question on his mind.

_What happened?_

The question was bouncing around in his head. He tried to imagine any possible scenario, until Graham's lost gaze on the way to Soho House and the fact that he had lost sight of him ran over him. At one point he thought he was going out to have a cigarette or to get away from the hustle and bustle, but he never imagined that. Alex and Dave were already there, their eyes open and endless tears streaming down their cheeks.

He was lying there in a strange position. _He looked dead, because to admit that he was actually dead would break his heart even more._ Slowly he approached, the people around him opened their way to him. His knees touched the ground, slamming painfully into the hard cement. She carefully took him in her arms, holding him closer to her body. His hands trembled at the touch of it, his movements smooth trying not to break it any more than it already was. Deep despair flooded his lungs, making breathing difficult.

He wished that it was all a stupid joke, that his friend's anger had gone so far as to orchestrate a plan to see him suffer and that he finally understood how difficult it was that he was putting him through. I wanted him to open his eyes and laugh in his face, to leave and try to turn the situation into a scurrilous anecdote to be told to posterity. However, the blood that kept flowing showed him the opposite. Nobody was laughing. He hugged him tighter, begging to be left alone. He didn't need people looking at him with pity, saying words of support or asking if he was okay.

_He had his lifeless friend bleeding to death in his hands, and they still asked if he was okay?_

He longed to go home and scream out the torturous headache, get out of there and cry and break everything that got in his way. The beautiful light blue of his eyes became one of those storms that seemingly will never end.

When the ambulance arrived she held her lover's body tighter. Dave had to interrupt by pulling it out of her hands. Drenched in tears and blood he was left with his arms at his side, static. While Dave accompanied the paramedics, Alex would take him home to calm him down and try to rest. The brown man tried to pick up the blond man, who put up no resistance and let himself go. He couldn't stay there any longer.

— Damon – said Alex, glancing at the rearview mirror, wiping the occasional drop that still slipped down his cheek. There was no answer. — Damon – he continued, raising his voice. He sighed, closing his eyes to let the accumulated tears fall.

— Look, I can't tell you that I understand how you feel, or at least not completely – he said in a low voice but loud enough for the other man to hear. — I've lost people I love, but never a friend, let alone one so close. We were friends, of course; but not the way you were. You were so close, inseparable. If one went somewhere, the other had to go too. I even came to envy your friendship, your way of accommodating perfectly to the occurrences of both of you.

» Damon, I know that you may prefer not to feel anything and that I may not be the one or the one you want to talk to about this, but you must do it. If you keep it to yourself, it will be worse in the long run. You have your sister, your parents, and if you don't feel like talking, you can write. Take a sheet of paper and write down everything that comes to mind. And please, for heaven's sake, don't try to keep up this time – the blue-eyed man couldn't deny the fact that he was crying, the shortness of breath and the choking sobs were what could be heard, apart from a few noises from outside.

Alex stopped suddenly, scaring Damon. He climbed out of the driver's seat to get in the back, hugging him deeply. The other one, as soon as he felt the heat of the others, cried even louder. He leaned closer to the brown-eyed man's body, wetting his clothes with all his pain reduced to simple tears.

— It's all right, it's all right. Let's go home and get you a bath and some sleep – he let go of it after a while, sliding a hand across his cheekbones to dry them. He came out of the back and went back to his previous place, turned on the radio on a random station with quiet music and drove home.


	3. ²

_SUICIDE._

It resonated in the streets, the newspapers exaggerated the title of the front page so that the passing audience, between astonished and sad, took a copy. The press, the radios, the television; all the media echoed the sudden and immensely painful death of his lover as he stood among Graham's jumpers, shirts and belongings. 

Two weeks had passed since the incident, the blond man was barely out of bed. Dave was busy bringing him food, encouraging him to take a bath or get out of the bad environment. Every time he approached with the metal tray with food, the other's hoarse voice could be heard: 

_"Thank you, but I'm not hungry"._

He didn't even look up.

Dave told Alex how much it hurt him to see him like that, lying there with a sad face, not looking forward to anything. Only crying at the memory of the one he loved. He tried to cheer him up by telling him that everything would pass, that with the passing of time the anguish in his chest would go down and, even if he didn't manage to overcome it completely, he would be better off.

He didn't sleep enough, those black bags under his eyes gave him away. He spent hours adoring other people's clothes, soaking up their scent or trying to ignore the journalists who wanted to talk to him in a state of shock. 

_"Damon, how have you been?"_

_"Damon, is there anything you want to say to the audience?"_

_"Damon, what do you think about what happened?"_

Damon. Damon. Damon.

Couldn't they leave it alone for a moment? Was it so hard to understand that I didn't want to talk to the press about it? I didn't want to talk to anyone.

Justine called in the evenings every day, asking for him or sometimes going to visit him. She would sit by the door, never passing by despite the opportunity.

— Honey, hello. I know that this is hard and that you may never fully face it, but here I am – she said, tracing the reliefs of the wood. — You don't know how much it breaks me to know that you are like this, and it makes me angry that I can't do anything to help you, except talk to you behind a door hoping that it will make you feel better.

» If only you would tell me something, please, I want to know what I can do to help you. I don't like you being sad and blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault. Because it wasn't, believe me, Damon; it wasn't – on the other side the young man was always crying, soft for the words his girlfriend was saying to him. He felt guilty, she was so charming and gentle, and he had cheated on her. He had cheated on them. — I love you very much, don't forget that. I know you are strong.

And silence took its place again. 

The nights seemed eternal, full of bitterness and incessant spasms from crying. The moonlight contoured his thin body, sitting on the floor with Graham's precious guitar. If I could only see him, I could swear that I would tear it out of his hands, reminding him loudly not to touch it.

He laughed softly.

I missed him so much.

His fingers tore at the strings, creating tiny sounds that wandered across the room. In that instant, a memory flew into his mind, crystallizing in his eyes.

_13th June 1993._

That festival in Finsbury Park that only they attended.

Those complicit smiles when they came down from the stage, the sensation of their warm breath or the one of their lips searching in their sensitive parts.

That "I love you" that kept him awake all night.

 _That song._

The chords came out almost involuntarily.

His eyes hurt, he felt as if they were burning when he left them open for a long time, so he closed them. Trying not to break, his voice came out low and a bit out of tune.

_he's a twentieth century boy_   
_with his hands on the rails_   
_trying not to be sick again_   
_and holding for tomorrow_

_london ice cracks on a seamless line he's hanging on for dear life_   
_and so we hold each other tightly_   
_and hold on for tomorrow_   
_singing la la, la la la_

A cold current ran through his body, making him shiver. He turned confusedly to the door looking for something, the window was still closed. Nothing could have caused the immense cold that suddenly burst upon him. Surprisingly, another cold wave exploded and a small voice echoed in his ears.

_la, la la_   
_la la la la_   
_holding on for tomorrow_

He knew that voice, he knew it by the way his heart rumbled as soon as he heard it. Even though it was utopian, his mind clung to the possibility that it was there, watching him play his famous guitar and crying over the absence of its warmth.

From between the curtain and the wall, a distinguished profile was moulded and that made his heart hurt even more. 

Her not so upturned nose and the contour of her glasses, a few strands of that brown hair slipping down her forehead. It was unreal. It must have been unreal, yet it never felt so real. There was not the slightest doubt that it was him. The joy he lost filled him up again, lifting him up in one jump. 

He ran as fast as the room and his feet left him. He was so eager to kiss him again, to see him, to feel him, or to just lie there watching the figures on the ceiling of Graham's room. It was not the same to do it alone as to do it with someone else.

The wall was the only thing he felt, the blow to his forehead made him dizzy and intensified when he fell and the floor spread the pain further to the back of his head.

White walls full of humidity, endless corridors that could take you nowhere. Far away you could hear someone crying, slight screams and countless sighs. Frightened, he ran as far as he could, opening doors in search of the core of those sounds. 

Along the empty hallway, a wooden door rose up to increase the sound of crying. There he knew it was that one.

— Damon, please. I need you... – was what was heard. He paused for a moment, many questions haunted his mind. He knocked hard on the door, trying to pull it down or make a noise so I could hear him.

— Graham, open up! I'm here, I'm here! – He shouted, knocking on the wood with his knuckles. — I'm sorry for everything, I didn't mean to hurt you, I love you very much, very much, I always will! – nothing. 

The crying stopped, the knob began to move and the door opened. I was there, I really was, in that deplorable state. 

— Why did you do it? Am I not worth anything to you? Maybe I'm just another one of your adventures, discovering you and leaving me on the floor because all you cared about were those drugs or her. I stayed under the bed while you played with your other toys – I had that accusatory look, burning you. I could feel the flames burning in him. 

— No, Grah-

— You forced me to go when you knew perfectly well that I didn't want to, that I just needed to stay home and rest and you wanted to keep me there. I accepted because I believed that this time we would really go back to what we were, back to those lovely times where it used to be the two of us. You left me alone among hundreds of people.

» Everything I have done, I have done for you – stepped forward, firmly, pointing the finger, pushing back the blonde. — I loved you, Damon; I loved you so much and now I'm dead – he shook, hurt by the tone of his voice. 

It was true, he never made any mention of what he was feeling, of how burdened he was with all that being an icon of Britpop or the discomfort he was under from the pressure of failing at something. But it wasn't his fault, Damon should have noticed it sooner, with all those signs it gave him: that smile so wide that it gradually faded, those eyes full of passion that looked at him with tenderness that at some point stopped shining. He must have realized, however, that he did not; and that cost his friend his life. Fame spoiled his head, filling it with false promises and misconceptions.

In the end, he lost everything.

— Wake up, Dames – he shouted softly, as if the anger that was invading him had magically disappeared. — Wake up! Wake up!

The light blinded him for a moment, and he sat down, recklessly, resting his back on the metal of the small desk next to his bed. Alex moved his lips, but he couldn't hear anything. Dave looked at him with pity, his hand covering half his face to prevent him from collapsing right there.

His mind blurred for a moment, until the shadow that disappeared between his long curtains hit him hard. 

His Graham had returned, if only for a tiny moment.


	4. ³

08/08/1996

There is a boy lying on the bed, he is covered up to his head and it seems that he will not get up for a long time. The alarm sounds, desperate, causing the young man to panic and in one fell swoop he turns it off.

He rubs his eyes and sits on the shore, stripping off the blankets. His eyes wander around the half-dark room, thoughts bouncing around in his head, bumping into each other as he stares at the picture next to the lamp.

_Graham._

He thinks, placating his other ideas. That name takes shape, it is the only thing he can think about at this moment. He wants to cry, take it hard and beg for the last embrace; but he abstains.

He looks at the time on the clock, takes the folded clothes he ironed last night and goes to the bathroom. This was his new routine after the incident; he had given up his music career for a while, in which he tried to overcome or at least calm the dreadful loss of his friend, _his lover._ Almost four months after retiring she decided to break up her mourning and look for some work close to home. She wanted to get out into the daylight, get some fresh air and interact with other people, not just a worried Dave who interrupted her crying every five minutes. He looked in the newspaper, asked around the premises, took numbers from posters in the street until someone wanted to hire him. His name was well known, both for the music and the news that saddened the world.

Alex and Dave were surprised when the young blond man came out of his room, had breakfast with them, accompanied them to their usual tasks and, looking serene, told them that he would find a job, support them with their expenses and leave that room at once. They remained silent for a moment, processing everything, until Dave spoke:

—We don't need you to do this, Damon; we don't force you to help us, we understand that this is a difficult time and that if you need more time to improve we will have to give it to you. But it's not a burden on us, we want you to be well.

—I want to do this, I can't live crying and sleeping in a dark room, depend on someone or remember things that hurt me. It all happened so fast, I'm still devastated, but I have to keep going, you have to start over if you are to do it; for him, more than anything else — he said, letting go of his tears.

He grabs a towel to dry his torso, brushes his teeth and combs his hair. The dark circles under his eyes are no longer so noticeable, now they are just light grey patches. She fixes her shirt, takes a last look in the mirror, goes down to make coffee and eats something from the previous dinner.

Dave understood her words, there were even days when during breakfast she would comment on some friend who might need help and who might be interested. Alex invested in the cheese industry, once told him that, if he wanted to, he could work with him, but Damon was never so keen on it as to devote himself to it.

After an arduous task, he managed to get into a theatre as a stage assistant and sometimes contributed to the cleaning. He didn't get any money, just to go out, whatever he could find.

When he heard about him, he was totally hooked, reminding her of the times when she used to go to the theatre as a volunteer, the times when that shy boy would invite her home to talk about her day. He would never forget the way his face lit up when he talked to him about his new job.

He puts on the blue jacket Graham's mother gave him, puts away the keys, opens the door and starts walking towards the theatre. On the street people continued to offer him their condolences, sometimes asking for his autograph and some of them did not even know him.

He left the music scene, but he never gave up music completely. In the evenings, after a heavy day, he would sit at his desk and write sad letters with deep meanings. He would turn on the radio to listen to current music or play the Nick Drake cassettes that his friend once gave him and write them down with his heart in his hand. She would talk about her beloved, her uncertain future, her happy past or her lost youth.

Things were returned to his mother, some were kept by Damon as a memento of his great love and charities received clothes that no one would ever occupy.

All the time Justine supported him, spoke to him through the door, left him comforting words and helped the eldest of the group to prepare the food.

When he told him the truth she cried a lot, but in the end she understood.

—So... does this mean that you never really loved me?

—No, of course not! I loved you, I loved you like you have no idea, since I saw you you were the most beautiful girl, the most charming and kind. I owe you both an apology for having deceived you; to Grah for hurting him and promising him something I couldn't give him and to you for falling in love with him. I'm not asking you to forgive me, I just want to get this off my chest.

— _Never apologize for loving someone._

A short time later he resumed his routine of going to see him. They touched on the subject, talked about it in depth and made peace to end up as friends.

In front of him, a somewhat tall building stood, in medium sized letters "Mercury" stood out perfectly. From his pocket he took out the keys and put in the blue ring one. When he entered, his beauty welcomed him, as she did every morning.

There are times when, at night, he still mourns his absence. He screams, hits, breaks, even though he is aware that none of this will bring him back to life. He continues to be sad and sometimes he prefers not to get out of bed, the only thing he wants is to fall asleep thinking about how everything could have been different if he had realized the sorrows Graham was carrying much earlier. He blames himself and regrets so much, that's why he has his photo: to apologize and promise to be better day by day. It would be very impulsive to take action to meet him again, and he may even hate him for ending the chance he was given to live.

He may never get over it, the painful feeling that grows in his heart will not go away, yet he tries to give his all to move forward and make him proud. He wants to go on, even if he falls; _for him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, it didn't turn out the way i wanted but i hope you liked it. i thank you very much for choosing the story, the kudos and the comments. i don't think i ever replied but rest assured they were warmly received. 
> 
> i wish you a happy delayed new year, may your dreams come true and may you be happy. take care of yourselves.


End file.
